Killing time in the Albuquerque Airport

Good news in God's Country:

I'm actually employed.

I just wrapped up my third week at the Fort Wayne Journal Gazette. I'm back, five days a week, working mostly for the Living section, but also helping out the Business and Metro desks.

It's a temporary gig, but I'm not complaining. I'm thrilled to be back.

So far, most of my stories have been pretty playful: I’ve interviewed Fort Wayne fashionistas about what Michelle Obama should wear to the inaugural ball, talked to bakers about their Obama cookies, and spent an afternoon with the crazies who strip down to their underwear every New Years Day and run into the frigid waters of the St. Joseph river.

I’m getting a little worried, though, that I may be becoming the de facto “tough times” reporter, which may not be the best beat for my mental health. My first lengthy feature story was on survivors of the Great Depression; the next was on how the unemployed are flocking to online networking sites like LinkedIn to enhance their job search. I enjoyed doing the interviews, but given the chance, I may have passed the assignments on to a full-time staff member. I’m already worried about my economic future; listening to 80-somethings talk about eating dandelions and squirrels in the 1930s doesn’t help.

But three weeks of consistent work is apparently too much for Devon Haynie.

I'm actually in New Mexico now. I just spent the weekend in a very remote northeastern part of the state, where I interviewed for a reporting position at a community newspaper in a town called Farmington. I shouldn't give away too much about the gig, but allow me to foreshadow: it may or may not involve covering the Navajo Nation, acquainting myself with the oil and gas industry, and living in a trailer.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to New Mexico, and I forgot what a stunning state it is. On the three-hour drive from Albuquerque to Farmington, I passed towering sandstone mesas, red rolling hills, white rock formations and mountain ranges covered with snow and pines. The landscape seemed to change every 20 minutes. I haven’t been so overwhelmed by my surroundings since driving through South Africa several months ago.

I got so sucked in by the scenery on the drive back, in fact, that I thought I should take my time, enjoy the ride, and stop every now and then to take a picture. While that seemed like a good idea at the time, it seemed like a very bad decision a short while later when I approached the American Airlines counter at the Albuquerque Airport and realized that I had just missed my flight.

The original game plan was to get into Fort Wayne at 9:30 pm. I’ll now be getting in at 3 a.m. My friend Brian, who has to work tomorrow, is driving two hours to pick me up in Indianapolis. I hate that I’m the kind of person who actually asks for those kinds of favors, but I’m traveling tomorrow, too. And if I don’t get home tonight I’m in trouble.

I’m off to DC again tomorrow. I don't know how I did it, but I somehow talked my way into covering the inauguration. I'm taking an over-night 14-hour bus ride with The Fort Wayne Urban League—a local chapter of the national group of African Americans dedicated to black economic and educational empowerment. I couldn't have found a more perfect group to tag along with. I'll hang out with them during the day, file, and then see my friends at night.

I hitch a ride back Wednesday with one of the Urban League members. It’s going to be quite the trip. Cross your fingers that the networks aren’t down, and I can actually send in my copy….

Brrrrrrrrrr

There's not much walking, or driving for that matter, in this winter wonderland.

Two Homes for the Holidays

I've spent the last few days berating myself for failing to complete my mid-20’s magnum opus by my self-imposed deadline.

What should be a fast-moving tale of serendipity, violence and identity struggle is coming along, but at a dial-up modem’s pace.

I have only myself to blame for this, though it’s hard not to dwell on minor contributing factors: my subject’s illness, the job search, election distractions, a certain golden retrievers’ dependency issues, operation Fit into my Suits. The list goes on and on.

I came up with another excuse yesterday, though its relevance is still being vetted. It goes something like this:

I get work done when I’m here. But I haven’t actually BEEN HERE all that much.

I did the math (skepticism warranted), and it seems that since returning from South Africa in early October, I've evenly divided my time between northern Indiana's preeminent writing retreat and a conservative salon in northwest Washington called La Casa de Josef & Brian (CJ&B), known to outsiders simply as unit 825 at The Argonne.

Maybe I’ve spent too much time there. But I find solace in my east coast retreat, and cherish my alter ego as a jet-setting mystery woman curiously linked to 825’s handsome Texan tenants.

The two urban cowboys spend a weekend at a dusty, five star ranch, and Mystery Girl holds cover letter writing sessions in their absence. They leave early for Christmas, and Ms. Enigmatic collects their mail and invites a friend over for bagels. What, I wonder, does the building staff think of the girl who swoops into the apartment, stays for days at a time and acts like she owns the place—losing her laundry, locking herself out, swapping life stories with the Chinese owners of the basement bodega?

Do they wonder if I’m a sister? Friend? How I pay my "rent?”

(I would like to say in charm, but that’s pushing it. It’s more like I pay by eating the chocolate in the apartment so that nobody else has to.)

Ah, the practice tryst. I’d highly recommend it.

I wouldn’t change anything about my latest trip to apt 825. My itinerary was packed, but it was worth it:

Josef let me accompany him to a World Bank holiday party, where I wined and dined with the internationals. I caught up with an old college pal during a road trip to Baltimore. I saw my best friend try on her wedding dress and got misty eyed over how beautiful she looked, but regained emotional balance after learning that the bridal shop also sold Frosty the Snowman costumes, allowing me to dress up and do a little jig. I had two interviews, one of which horrified the Texans and might actually come to something.

On one of my final nights, I met a lawyer friend who decided that he wanted to become more than friends when I admitted that I shared his fascination with civil war re-enactments. I was asked to push back my flight a day so that we could tour Gettysburg, but declined. I bought a pair of skinny jeans, three years after they became fashionable, and had many thought-provoking conversations and tasty dinners.

During my quiet moments on the most comfortable couch/bed in the world, I spent time thinking about how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends.

In short: pretty damn lucky.

And then two days ago, along with several wailing infants and a handful of short-tempered, overworked flight attendants, I boarded a plane and flew back to the Artic tundra.

It's 2 degrees here. Negative 20 with the wind chill. The trees outside my house look like they're made out of crystal. Many are frozen in bows to last week's ice storm, their top branches brushing the ground.

Our power flicks on and off, but we're lucky. Thousands won't have electricity by Christmas.

It is 40 degrees in Washington, balmy in comparison; I'm already thinking about my next CJ&B booking.

I do, however, have this crazy thing called a job starting on Monday, which could complicate my travel plans. More on that to come.

Bad, but not this bad...

If you're interested, check out this blog post by conservative, Christian author Amy Welborn, who just left Fort Wayne.

She found the City of Churches too insular, and is now celebrating her move to, of all places, Birmingham, Alabama.

Is anyone else confused?

City lights, a single's frights, and forgiving Lori Gottlieb

To say that I've shed a tear or two in my life is a bit of an understatement.

In the privacy of my home, my eyes have been known to spill water like Niagara Falls.

But in public places, generally speaking, my pride keeps the flood gates shut.

This explains the grudge I've held against the Atlantic Monthly since last March, when it published an article that made me cry on a YMCA treadmill.

And on the elliptical machine.

And the on the gym floor as I forced myself through multiple sets of sit-ups.

Oh, how I wish the article was about abandoned Iraqi orphans or the war-torn region of Darfur. But nope, not even close. It was about...

(cringe)

...husband hunting.

The article, called "Marry Him! The case for settling for Mr. Good Enough," argues that single women approaching 30 should abandon the quest for true love and hurry up and tie the knot with the most decent, amenable guy around.

In one of many disturbing passages, author Lori Gottlieb writes:

I don’t mean to say that settling is ideal. I’m simply saying that it might have gotten an undeservedly bad rap. As the only single woman in my son’s mommy-and-me group, I used to listen each week to a litany of unrelenting complaints about people’s husbands and feel pretty good about my decision to hold out for the right guy, only to realize that these women wouldn’t trade places with me for a second, no matter how dull their marriages might be or how desperately they might long for a different husband. They, like me, would rather feel alone in a marriage than actually be alone, because they, like me, realize that marriage ultimately isn’t about cosmic connection—it’s about how having a teammate, even if he’s not the love of your life, is better than not having one at all.

But fear not, single women friends!

Well, at least if you're an urban dweller.

According to a study cited in a recent article in New York magazine, you don't need a husband or a significant other to keep loneliness at bay.

You just need lots of friends. And, ideally, a decent-sized city to find them in.

Take that, Lori!

YMCA throws me out, and Bill Clinton haunts my dreams

My metabolism suffered a crushing blow yesterday.

I was formally kicked out of the YMCA. I had been using my parents’ gym membership, and someone finally noticed that I wasn't 61.

I could sign up for a new membership, but that would require a yearlong commitment, and even if I am going to be in Fort Wayne for that long, there's no way I'll overcome my denial and admit it.

This is all very troubling for two reasons:

1) I had almost convinced myself that I would run a half marathon in late December. I've done 6, and could probably go further, at least on the track inside my heated gym. But it's cold here, like 30 degrees with snow and ice on the ground. I can handle 45 degrees, 40 even. But I have to be honest with myself: Am I really going to start running 10 + miles as my eyelashes freeze and snow smacks me in the face? Unlikely.

2) I was in DC last week for interviews, and was shocked and appalled to discover that I could no longer fit into my suits. And then, to make the horror worse, the tight waist crisis sparked a nightmare about Bill Clinton. I dreamt I met him at a party on a cruise boat, one thing led to another, and then, well... Flash forward several months, and I realize that the reason I can't get into my suits is... You guessed it: I'm having Slick Willie's illegitimate child.

I woke up, sweating, and then had to run to the bathroom to throw water on my face. I couldn't fall back to sleep for 15 minutes.

I guess there's always yoga. Or very long, bundled walks?

I'll have to figure out something soon, or I'll be too afraid to sleep at night.